


Outnumbered

by BlueButterflyDreamer



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Violence, Explicit Language, M/M, More Fluff, Oral Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueButterflyDreamer/pseuds/BlueButterflyDreamer
Summary: As if fueled by the heat of his possible loss, John stood to his feet, dual revolvers in hand, firing as he surged forward, taking each shot, one at a time, putting down each O’Driscoll as they came forward to greet him their own rifles, revolvers and repeaters gunning for him.A ‘so-called’ parley between the O’Driscoll's and our boys soon turns into a full out war with John fearing for Arthur’s life.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Outnumbered

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank Morstonweek2020 for opening the door wide-open to this pairing. Hell! It ripped the hinges right off over here in my corner of the room.  
> I called them JohnArthur (said real fast together) for a while there, but Morston seems to be appropriate.  
> Morstonweek2020 may be over, but the love these two share is not.  
> But... I just like writing these two anyways and I hope you like reading my drabbles.  
> So, strap on your gun belts folks, and let's get!

John readjusted his grip on his revolver, his palms slick with sweat making the task no easy matter. He was taunt with nervousness at the approaching event which had his stomach tied up in knots.

The sun rose behind him, an advantage he hoped that would weigh heavily on their side.

He squinted, swallowing the ball of hardness in his mouth, a mouth that had gone dry too quickly. He glanced to his left, hoping for some reassurance, from the man that was laying on his belly behind a bolder that probably would afford little protection once things got out of hand and, they definitely had a habit of going that way lately.

“Arthur, are ya sure ‘bout this?”

Arthur was too busy concentrating on the tree line on the crest of the hill a few yards away. He placed down his binoculars and took to wiping the glass of the scope on his Springfield rifle.

He heard what John was saying, but he dared not answer him. It might be the wrong answer, and right now, Arthur was unsure of what the hell was going on. He trusted his feelings, and right now, his gut was telling him that this was a mistake.

Dutch had sent them both here to parley with the devil’s advocate, some higher-ranking gunslinger in Colm’s camp. Dutch assured them the information was true and even Hosea said it looked good and _that_ was the only reason Arthur had come. The meet was set for just West of the Cumberland Forest, inside the border of the Grizzlies East, east of Moonstone Pond.

Arthur and John both knew the area well, they had often come in this direction for hunting and _private_ camping trips, seeking as much time as they could justify away from the camp. It made it kinda hard, when you shared space with as many members there were, that kept walking past your tent when you just wanted to be alone, or were busy trying to make out.

“Arthur, are ya ignorin’ me?”

Arthur sighed heavily, still not responding.

“Just tell me, do ya think-”

John’s words were cut off by a hail of bullets and a loud explosion. Clumps of dirt and small bits of rock peppered down upon and around his position.

“Is that a good enough answer for ya, John?" he snapped. "It looks like ol’ Colm’s boys have other ideas on what a parley means. Now get shootin’ em bastards.”

The whine of a bullet passed too close for comforts sake and Arthur reacted with a few shots of his own. He couldn’t see them, but he had a fair idea of the direction they were.  
He wondered how long had they been laying in wait for John and him to arrive, probably taking bets on who would kill who first.

The O’Driscolls were a vile gang, full of miscreants that were depraved, repulsive, willing to sink to the lowest of depths. They had terrorized so many innocents and of course, the Van der Linde gang themselves.

To say there was no love lost between Dutch and Colm had to be the stupidest statement one could declare. It was all out war, and either side would gladly kill every single last member most likely without even flinching.

Arthur shifted his eyes over to check on John, who was peering out from behind a fallen tree trunk. From the looks of it, in a few minutes there wasn’t going to be enough cover to keep him safe.

Arthur shook his head, ‘ _when would that kid ever learn, rock is safer than wood?’_

“Git out of there and behind that boulder to your left. " He directs waving his hand in the direction of said boulder. "Go now I’ll keep em busy. Now move, ya dumbass!”

Arthur crouched low for a moment then sprang upright, opening fire with his repeater, hoping to buy John enough time to move into a better position.

Bullets flew left, right and center and some how John was able to move up to the boulder at his left. He smiled and then let bullets fly.

A sudden shout alerted them to more O’Driscolls arriving on scene, dismounting quickly, not even taking time to send their horses to safety.

Blood splattered, the sharp whinny of a horse in pain, more bullets pinging off of rock, the retort of a rifle, and shouts to _‘kill those fuckers’_ filled the air.

Arthur reloaded his revolver as John continued to fire from where he was stationed, his eyes darting to and fro, watching for any movement.

The buggers were trying to advance up their left flank, but John was holding them back and relishing every shot.

“Arthur!" He called. "How much ammo do ya have? I’m starting to run low!”

“Don’t tell them too, Marston,” Arthur rolled his eyes, “I’m fine, just keep pumping them full of lead.”

John laughed as two more O’Driscolls fell to his hand.

A whoop and a holler came from behind Arthur as three more O’Driscolls raced in on foot.

One could barely pull his revolver from his holster and ended up shooting himself in the foot. His accomplices left him laying in the path on his own.

John rolled over and let loose, catching one of them in the throat, a spray of blood hitting the other in the eyes, temporarily blinding him.

Arthur took advantage of it and nailed him through the heart. The last one, still bemoaning the fact he had shot himself in the foot, managed to stand and turned tail, limping back the way he had come.

John rolled back over and shot two more O’Driscolls who thought they had the drop on him; plugging one in the knee sending him down, clutching it and bellowing in pain. The second caught the bullet under his chin and his head snapped back before dropping like a sack of potatoes to the ground.

“I’m hit, I’m hit,” the one shot in the knee called out to anyone who might hear. None of his fellow compadres came to his rescue.

A single O’Driscoll came hurtling out of the bushes close to John, firing repeatedly, and unbelievably missing him. He gave up shooting and decided to throw himself at John to try and stab him.

John tried to hit him in the side of the head with the butt of his revolver as they collided, but the O’Driscoll jerked at the last second and the hit went wide. He grappled with John, grabbing the collar of his jacket, and they scuffled in the dirt.

Encouragement wafted from the tree line, where the O’Driscolls were shooting, rising above the gunfire. They were urging the man to kill the Van der Linde cocksucker.

The O’Driscoll, outweighing John by a considerable amount, was almost to the point of straddling John, sun glinting off the knife as he slashed viciously at John’s face and throat.

“I think I’ll here give ya a _close_ shave boy-o, then maybe serve ya balls up to. How’d ya like that?” he sneers.

  
John managed to buck him up then brought his arm up to hit him again, ensuring he would not be getting up, ever.

The force of John’s swing and the butt of the revolver collided with skull, and there was an audible _thwack_ as they met. The O’Driscoll’s eyes rolled back and he fell over onto him, pinning him in place.

“Christ, Morgan, how many more are there?” John yelled over at Arthur, who was busy reloading his weapons again, as he struggled out from under the dead weight.

“Just keep ya yap shut and _shoot_ , Marston, just keep shooting!” Arthur shouted back.

John wiped at the blood on his face; he shook his head, he was tired of this shit.

Arthur had already begun to wonder how many there were. He was getting nervous but would never admit that to Marston or fully accept it himself. He wondered if Colm O’Driscoll would show up hoping to capture or just plain outright kill Dutch’s right hand man and his golden boy.

Arthur then wondered who had really fed the information into Dutch’s ear. One name popped immediately into his head: Micah. That no-account low-down scum. Arthur swore if they got out of this alive, he would kill the bastard, one way or another.

Arthur was brought back to the fight at hand when four O’Driscolls came charging out of the trees, in front of where he and John were taking cover.

They blasted their shotguns, hollering at them to come out and die like the dogs they were.

“Come on out, ya bloody dogs. I got something real nice for ya.”

The one speaking grinded his hips in a lude fashion.

A scream left his mouth as John shot him in the groin. He fell over clutching his junk, yowling like a cat in heat.

John coughed out a laugh that sounded like a braying donkey.

The remaining three O’Driscolls rushed towards where he was behind the boulder and tried to take him.

John, kept shooting, catching one in the ankle, one in the upper arm and Arthur shot the remaining one, a small wiry carrot-topped lout, the top of his head sheared away, subsequently spraying blood and brain matter over the other two.

Arthur whipped around blowing a gaping hole in each man’s chest as a fifth and sixth member crept up the path behind them.

“Dammit, Marston, I’m getting tired of this fight, we either finish it soon, or we’ll be finished.”

John nodded in agreement and snatched the rifles from the dead men closest to where he sheltered.

Ammunition was dwindling and so was his reserve of strength. Sweat ran into his eyes, mixed with blood and dirt, his hands were sore, his arms tiring quickly.

He quickly allowed himself to again glance over at Arthur, his hair plastered to his face, blood smeared on one cheek, his shirt splattered in splotches of gore.

John’s heart leapt into his mouth, fear rising as he studied the man he loved.

_‘What if he dies?’_ A cold whisper came from somewhere in the back of his mind.

John shook as the image of Arthur laying dead, crowded his mind, seeing his lifeless blue eyes clouding over. His body that warmed John on so many nights growing cold and stiff instead.

He knew he could not exist without that that brought him life, gave him reason to rise and to draw breath. Arthur was his entire world, his life, his deepest desire and love.

As if fueled by the heat of his possible loss, John stood to his feet, dual revolvers in hand, firing as he surged forward, taking each shot, one at a time, putting down each O’Driscoll as they came forward to greet him their own rifles, revolvers and repeaters gunning for him.

John felt the sting of a bullet as it grazed his thigh, another that clipped his right ear.

Arthur hollered at John, inquiring if he had lost what little of his mind he had left.

John spared a quick glance back, baring a flash of teeth, “Come on, Arthur, let’s take em!”

Arthur closed ranks, shoulder-to-shoulder with John, an unstoppable force both driven by their fury, their admiration, their sense of brothers-in-arms and their profound love for each other.

They surged forward, mowing any O’Driscolls down; bodies falling to their gunfire, wounds gaping, some hands mangled beyond use, the rich tangy aroma of blood and acrid gun smoke filling their nostrils.

Arthur took a bullet to one shoulder, causing him to momentarily flinch, another tore through the side of his shirt, but he did not stop; he was a brutal force, seething with anger at the situation and the fact that John was stupid enough to break cover.

John, mind still churning with the image of a possibly-dead Arthur, was a lathered-in-sweat, had become a deranged shooter who shot anything that moved in his path.

The air was pierced with the screams and shouts of men dying, and dying badly.

It was an all-out war waged by two men against a mass that could only be counted as outnumbered.

The last of the O’Driscolls that witnessed the massacre of their fellow gang, turn on heel and ran, running as fast as they could, some on foot, others on horses they could snag, though wounded themselves.

Some were unseated from saddle and trampled in the chaos by terrified horses, others shot as they tried to flee.

Arthur and John gave chase on foot, not willing to let it end.

Climbing up a small cleft in a rock wall to the top and gaining advantage over those on foot, they continued to fire upon them.

The stragglers turned to face the adversaries that dogged their heels, trying in vain to gain some advantage of their own by hiding behind bushes, trees, rocks or one another. They eventually fell to either John’s revolvers or Arthur’s repeater.

When they had finally ended the battle, the smoke around them, a greyish-white haze, rose up to where a cardinal sang its song as it wheeled overhead oblivious to the destruction that lay on the ground beneath it.

John turned to face Arthur, who at this moment was wiping the sweat from his brow.

They caught each others eye and a slow smiled crept across their faces.

“Let’s get!”

~mm~

They ran for their horses, tied a good distance away from harm and quickly mounted, riding swiftly away from the carnage, coat tails flapping in the wind.

Arthur pulled Angharad up some time later, sure they were in no danger and dismounted. He strode to Old Boy, pulling John down roughly in one fell swoop and pinning him against Old Boy’s whither where he dropped his mouth to his and kissed him hard and without reserve.

The urgency was apparent, as the front of Arthur’s jeans bulged.

John heaved a sigh as he threw his head back when Arthur’s lips found his neck and began a pattern of sucking, licking and biting at the flesh there.

“I need ya, _now_.” Came the throaty desire-dripping statement from Arthur as he began to unbutton then rip anything, he could lay his hands on.

“Easy, Morgan, easy, John chastised him softly, “we got time.”

Arthur’s hooded eyes told John all he needed to know.

Arthur ducked his head down, and gently kissed John before turning away to tie Angharad's reins to a close-by tree.

They set up camp, at the edge of a deep green pool amidst a grove of trees, far from prying eyes.

Arthur, with much trouble, due to his inability to focus on the tasks at hand, managed to get a fire burning as John set their tent up.

Later, as they undressed each other, they washed each others body in the cool clear water checking wounds, cleaning them, cauterizing where necessary, and finally kissing the bandages they applied.

“We were pretty damn lucky back there,” John surmised as he stroked Arthur’s arm, “I was worried I might,” he turned away, his throat closing on him as he recalled what he had thought of, “lose you, Morgan.”

Arthur leaned forward, placing both hands on John’s face, turning him to look into his eyes and leaning in to brush his lips against his. Arthur then kissed him, gently at first, then with an increasing firmness.

“I ain’t going no where. Not now, not ever.”

Arthur’s obvious desire rose from his groin and John took it in hand.

He stroked Arthur’s length as he lay back against the bank of the pool, his eyes half-closed, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

“Mmm, you sure know how to work me up,” Arthur lay back, hands behind his head and uttered, “but do ya know how to finish me off?”

John chuckled and bent, taking Arthur’s swollen member into his mouth. His tongue lapped the precum from the shiny tip and he raked his teeth down and up the thickly veined cock.

Arthur bucked under him, grabbing hold of John’s hair, driving his hips upward.

_“Marston!”_

John continued his pace, then began to suck, hard and fast, his hands teasing and fondling Arthur’s balls.

Arthur’s hips rose again, and he fisted his hands in John’s hair, his throaty urgings encouraging him to just the right effect.

John needed no encouragement or tutelage; this was not his first rodeo. He knew exactly what pleased Arthur and how to turn him into a puddle of putty in his hands.

John, sensing Arthur’s closeness, continued his movements until Arthur stiffened and jerked under John and a rush of sweet heat filled John’s mouth.

Arthur lay still for a moment, basking in the moment, then struggled to sit up, pulling John close and clamping his mouth to his, kissing him fervently.

They kissed, holding to each other with arms that grew tighter, soft groans emitted from their actions, lost in their own world overflowing with a deep bond.

Shoving John down and to the side, they rolled over, John, pinned beneath Arthur as he trailed his tongue down John’s chest, thumbing his nipples, torso and pelvis until he came to his bobbing cock.

Kneeling between his legs, one casually pulled over Arthur’s shoulder, he took his lover by hand, and gently began stroking, squeezing and kneading his sack as John groaned with pleasure.

“Dammit, Arthur, harder!”

Arthur increased the pressure he applied, lengthening his stroke. His unoccupied hand moved around and under John’s buttocks and to where he was searching for.

Inserting the tip of one finger gently, he rolled his finger back and forth in a circular motion around the edge of his rim.

John’s eyes flew open and he gasped.

“Mmm, Arthur…”

Arthur chuckled and continued, for a few minutes longer, watching as John wriggled like a fish on the end of a line, then arranged himself so as to drop his mouth down onto the straining cock, his tongue rolling across the tip and around the shaft.

John grabbed hold of Arthur’s shoulders, but he eased him back down.

John shuddered with excitement, his eyes blown wide open, his mouth partially open, his breathing coming on hard like a freight train riding it towards his peak.

Arthur inserted his finger deeper, sending John over the edge. John lost himself in utter and complete bliss as he emptied into Arthur’s mouth.

They lay, side by side, after, basking in the cool evenings air, listening to the sound of frogs and crickets.

John sighed deeply and rolled onto his side, lifting himself onto one elbow, peering down at Arthur, a look of total adornment upon his face.

“I love you, Morgan.”

Arthur’s chest rumbled, a chuckle coming to the surface.

“I know that boah, ya do know that’s how I feel bout ya, don’t cha?”

John’s brown eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I do, the same.”

“And after what we just did, I would say we are mighty fine, if I do so say so myself.” Arthur voiced.

“Mighty fine indeed, Morgan, _mighty_ fine.”

They lay silent for a few minutes, John laying in Arthur’s arms, mindlessly stroking his chest, there amidst the stars that had come out above them.

They stayed until morning came which woke them from a short night of barely any sleep, not that they had minded much.

As they cleared the camp, they moved towards one another and kissed, gently holding to one another.

“It might be a while fore we can get away. Dutch’ll be wanting to take it to Colm no doubt.”

John nodded.

“Maybe Hosea can talk him out of it, distract him somehow. He has before.”

They separated to mount their horses, John taking a moment to pat Old Boy while waiting for Arthur.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, as he cinched his bed roll to Angharad’s saddle tighter and thought about it.

It would _not_ last for long, he knew, but he would take any reprieve he could get. Any, so he could have time with John.


End file.
